genshou
First Post
This Story Hour is based on a heavily house-ruled campaign I ran for a while in the Forgotten Realms campaign setting. It is entirely fictional, and none of it will reflect the chronicling of an actual gaming session. The narration will be heavily inspired by the D&D rules and Elements of Magic - Revised by E.N. Publishing (a variant magic system very separate from the Vancian spellcasting of the core rules).
The Story Hour starts out around three months before the official start of the campaign, and at first features the meeting and initial adventures of two important NPCs, Evendur Greycastle and Shirl Ravenlocke. As characters in the campaign, Evendur is a Gestalt Rogue/Ranger who later becomes a multiclass between gestalt Rogue/Mage (Elements of Magic - Revised) and Ranger/Mage, and Shirl is a Gestalt Troubad'war (Unorthodox Bards)/Fighter. Because of the cancellation of the campaign partway through, in the Story Hour they are the protagonists rather than NPCs, and this is their story from their initial meeting up to when they discover their destiny, and a massive and evil plot to overthrow all of Faerûn (because villains who aren't ambitious aren't any fun).
A Rogues' Gallery for this Story Hour is currently pending due to me being lazy and not starting the thread.
You can find an explanation of the Forgotten Realms calendar in post #39, right around the bottom of page 1. Scroll on down and have a look if you're not familiar with the Calendar of Harptos, or you just need a refresher.
In case it needs to be said, the majority of the content of this Story Hour is copyright Timothy P. Campbell. People and places from canon Forgotten Realms (for example, the city of Waterdeep and the archmage Elminster) are copyrighted to their respective IP rights holders.
And with all that out of the way, enjoy!
***
10th Marpenoth (Leaffall), 1371 DR. Time approx. 0730
Location: Outside an inn in Waterdeep
Focus. Her eyes remained fixed on the clay jug standing atop a fencepost on the rim of the inn grounds. Morning light inching over the surrounding businesses of Waterdeep glittered in the beads of sweat trickling down her face from her long, reddish-brown hair. Aquamarine eyes narrowed as she looked down at the coiled whip in her delicate, gloved left hand, her focal point adjusting to view the nearer object. She brought her eyes to rest on the tip of the hardened leather coil, attached to which was a steel blade slightly larger than a dagger. It was her own weapon. She had crafted it herself, and would someday be the master of its use. Glancing briefly over to her teacher watching her from within the shadow of the stable, she once again focused her vision on her target. Taking in a few breaths and releasing them, her grip tightened on the whip dagger’s handle. Gracefully she turned a full counter-clockwise circle, releasing the lengthy coils of her weapon as she did so. As she finished exhaling the last of her breath, she moved her arm ever so slightly to adjust the trajectory of the tip, and then pulled against the length of the weapon to straighten its extension. The blade whistled through the air and then struck home, stabbing into the jug and carrying its momentum through to push the container off the post. Swiftly falling to the Earth, clay shattered as the jug struck the cobblestones of the street.
Her mentor’s applause incited a slight flush in her cheeks as she tugged on the handle to recover the tip. Coiling the weapon once more–conscientiously done, due to the many barbs along its length–she turned to see the man walking toward her. He was as average as a man could be–a human in his late twenties, average height and build, brown eyes and short brown hair. The sparkle he carried in his eyes betrayed his mischievous but kind personality. His name was Lander, a bard of no small repute, though knowledge of his fame had yet to spread this far from Cormyr. “Well done!” he shouted jubilantly in his sparse, spirited lilt. “You have improved greatly since I first took you under my wing three years ago. Back then, you couldn’t even hit a barn.
She situated her whip dagger in the special slot built into her belt on the right side, then stamped her foot petulantly. “How rude! I don’t recall ever missing a barn, even when I used a whip for the first time.”
Lander laughed blithely. “Aye, that you did not. ‘Twas only a jest, m’dear Shirl.” His words had an immediate calming effect on her. She understood he was only joking, but was predisposed to impulsiveness, especially when she presumed herself affronted. Still, Lander seemed to have a way with words when it came to women. Perhaps it was his tone, or his posture, or a mixture of many factors, but regardless of the source, he was charming to members of the opposite sex. He did not use this knack for personal benefit, though he was remembered as quite the dashing storyteller among the women in the Dales. “At any rate, I’m goin’ to find some breakfast. Feel free to join me once you’ve finished practicing.” Turning with a shake of his head as he contemplate her dedication to morning practice, he chuckled quietly and stepped back into the inn proper. Shirl watched him leave out of the corner of her eye, then brought her fists up in the manner of a brawler. She felt like venting some steam after some difficulties in her training the night before. Breakfast would have to wait...
The Story Hour starts out around three months before the official start of the campaign, and at first features the meeting and initial adventures of two important NPCs, Evendur Greycastle and Shirl Ravenlocke. As characters in the campaign, Evendur is a Gestalt Rogue/Ranger who later becomes a multiclass between gestalt Rogue/Mage (Elements of Magic - Revised) and Ranger/Mage, and Shirl is a Gestalt Troubad'war (Unorthodox Bards)/Fighter. Because of the cancellation of the campaign partway through, in the Story Hour they are the protagonists rather than NPCs, and this is their story from their initial meeting up to when they discover their destiny, and a massive and evil plot to overthrow all of Faerûn (because villains who aren't ambitious aren't any fun).
A Rogues' Gallery for this Story Hour is currently pending due to me being lazy and not starting the thread.
You can find an explanation of the Forgotten Realms calendar in post #39, right around the bottom of page 1. Scroll on down and have a look if you're not familiar with the Calendar of Harptos, or you just need a refresher.
In case it needs to be said, the majority of the content of this Story Hour is copyright Timothy P. Campbell. People and places from canon Forgotten Realms (for example, the city of Waterdeep and the archmage Elminster) are copyrighted to their respective IP rights holders.
And with all that out of the way, enjoy!
***
10th Marpenoth (Leaffall), 1371 DR. Time approx. 0730
Location: Outside an inn in Waterdeep
Focus. Her eyes remained fixed on the clay jug standing atop a fencepost on the rim of the inn grounds. Morning light inching over the surrounding businesses of Waterdeep glittered in the beads of sweat trickling down her face from her long, reddish-brown hair. Aquamarine eyes narrowed as she looked down at the coiled whip in her delicate, gloved left hand, her focal point adjusting to view the nearer object. She brought her eyes to rest on the tip of the hardened leather coil, attached to which was a steel blade slightly larger than a dagger. It was her own weapon. She had crafted it herself, and would someday be the master of its use. Glancing briefly over to her teacher watching her from within the shadow of the stable, she once again focused her vision on her target. Taking in a few breaths and releasing them, her grip tightened on the whip dagger’s handle. Gracefully she turned a full counter-clockwise circle, releasing the lengthy coils of her weapon as she did so. As she finished exhaling the last of her breath, she moved her arm ever so slightly to adjust the trajectory of the tip, and then pulled against the length of the weapon to straighten its extension. The blade whistled through the air and then struck home, stabbing into the jug and carrying its momentum through to push the container off the post. Swiftly falling to the Earth, clay shattered as the jug struck the cobblestones of the street.
Her mentor’s applause incited a slight flush in her cheeks as she tugged on the handle to recover the tip. Coiling the weapon once more–conscientiously done, due to the many barbs along its length–she turned to see the man walking toward her. He was as average as a man could be–a human in his late twenties, average height and build, brown eyes and short brown hair. The sparkle he carried in his eyes betrayed his mischievous but kind personality. His name was Lander, a bard of no small repute, though knowledge of his fame had yet to spread this far from Cormyr. “Well done!” he shouted jubilantly in his sparse, spirited lilt. “You have improved greatly since I first took you under my wing three years ago. Back then, you couldn’t even hit a barn.
She situated her whip dagger in the special slot built into her belt on the right side, then stamped her foot petulantly. “How rude! I don’t recall ever missing a barn, even when I used a whip for the first time.”
Lander laughed blithely. “Aye, that you did not. ‘Twas only a jest, m’dear Shirl.” His words had an immediate calming effect on her. She understood he was only joking, but was predisposed to impulsiveness, especially when she presumed herself affronted. Still, Lander seemed to have a way with words when it came to women. Perhaps it was his tone, or his posture, or a mixture of many factors, but regardless of the source, he was charming to members of the opposite sex. He did not use this knack for personal benefit, though he was remembered as quite the dashing storyteller among the women in the Dales. “At any rate, I’m goin’ to find some breakfast. Feel free to join me once you’ve finished practicing.” Turning with a shake of his head as he contemplate her dedication to morning practice, he chuckled quietly and stepped back into the inn proper. Shirl watched him leave out of the corner of her eye, then brought her fists up in the manner of a brawler. She felt like venting some steam after some difficulties in her training the night before. Breakfast would have to wait...
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